


A Bouquet of Blue Hydrangeas

by Desiree_Harding



Series: You Learn to Live Without (or: Alexander Hamilton deals with grief) [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is a speech writer in for Pres. Washington, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Lams is only a past relationship, Angst, Breakup Fic, Eliza runs a children's home, F/M, Freeform, John Laurens is dead, John was in the military, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, john is only mentioned, yep sorry things get a little ambiguous at times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 01:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7132544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desiree_Harding/pseuds/Desiree_Harding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's not anyone's fault. Sometimes, you're just not ready.</p><p>Alternatively: A break up fic, in which Alexander has to come to terms with the past, and Eliza with the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bouquet of Blue Hydrangeas

He calls Eliza the next day, leaves a voicemail on her phone asking her to meet him on the National Mall that evening after work. She sends him a text around lunchtime saying that she’ll be there, and he smiles at her use of green heart emojis (she’d done it ever since he’d told her that green was his favorite color), before getting sad all over again and putting his phone away with a troubled sigh.

  
He leaves work early and buys a nice bouquet of blue hydrangeas, remembering Eliza’s affection for the color, and fervently hopes that he can make her understand, that she won’t be too hurt and angry, that they won’t be thrown into his face later that night. He almost loses his nerve when he thinks about facing Angelica Schuyler the next day after breaking up with her sister, but six o’clock finds him sitting on the steps of the Lincoln memorial, staring out at the reflecting pool, deep in thought.

  
He’s always liked the Lincoln Memorial. From its steps, he can see the entirety of the National Mall, almost two miles long, all the way down to the Capitol building. When he first started working in D.C., way back during the campaign when they’d stop here, Alex used to find time to sneak away and come here, to walk up the steps and look out on the capitol city. Sometimes he’d stay there well into the morning, and read Lincoln’s words over and again, even though he’d had them practically memorized since the 11th grade, because nothing could work him past writer’s block like Lincoln could.

  
He violently remembers coming here on a high school trip with his debate club, visiting each monument and memorial with his history teacher in one whirlwind day, and he remembers that 16-year-old Alexander Hamilton stood in this very spot at the end of that day, with the sun sinking over the Potomac behind him, and thought that in Washington D.C., everyone got to have a legacy.

  
He thinks of the Vietnam veterans memorial somewhere off to his left, hidden by the trees, thinks about the long walls of dark stone, and the thousands of names engraved in them. Thinks about the mourners who come place flowers and pictures and letters to their deceased loved ones along the base of that wall. And he thinks about how John has no wall, no engraving, no legacy. And he wishes that there was _something_ left for Alexander to look at, to visit, to _understand_ , even though all he has are memories, far too inconsistent and fleeting to offer him any comfort.

  
“Earth to Alexander,” comes Eliza’s lilting voice from Alexander’s left side; he hadn’t even noticed her sit down next to him. She nudges him gently with her shoulder. She doesn’t push, doesn’t ask him what was occupying his thoughts and he’s glad, because even after a whole day of thinking, he’s still not sure how he’s going to tell her. She never pushes. She always seems to understand without him having to tell her how much of a break he needs, how nice it is to have someone talk to him about something other than work. She doesn’t push. Instead, she tilts her head and smiles gently and gestures toward the flowers sitting next to him on the step.

  
“Are those for me, or are we having an unexpected guest tonight?”

  
He laughs just a little, and trust Eliza to raise his spirits even on a night like this.

  
“Of course they’re for you, milady,” he replies in his most gallant knight-in-shining-armor voice, and something in his heart cries out _I’m sorry_ as he places the flowers into her waiting hands.

  
“They’re beautiful,” she says softly, “thank you.” Silence falls between them, Eliza fiddling with her flowers, Alex too afraid to meet her eyes.

  
“You know,” Eliza pipes up, cheerful even despite her subdued tone, “no one can seem to agree on the meaning of hydrangea flowers.” Alex hadn’t even considered the meaning when he bought them, that’s a kind of romance that he’s too beaten down to muster up anymore. In Eliza, however, it’s charming, and he turns his head to look at her as she explains, “some people say that blue hydrangeas are the symbol of turning down a romantic proposal, or asking for forgiveness from someone, or expressing regret. Others say that hydrangeas represent gratitude for a person’s understanding nature.” And if that isn’t the most freakishly accurate thing in the world Alex doesn’t know what is. He tries to ignore the little voice in the back of his head, saying over and over _it’s a sign. Tell her._ Signs are for younger people than he. Signs are for people who still believe in fate and greater forces watching over them, and Alex has been through far too much to fall victim to foolish belief in _fate_ or in _signs_.

  
Eliza meets Alexander’s eyes, her own expression almost apologetic. “I used to work for a florist for a little while in college,” she explains, and Alex’s heart warms a bit because _of course she did_. “It always makes things more complicated when people give me flowers because I can’t seem to detach the meanings from them anymore in my head; I forget that not everyone knows that sort of thing and it has lead to some very awkward misunderstandings in the past. I suppose I analyze too much, but…” she shrugs, “I always liked how flowers can convey very specific messages without needing any words.”

  
“It’s very elegant,” Alexander agrees, and looks back out across the mall again. He doesn’t say _like you_. He doesn’t say _I’m sorry_. He doesn’t say _maybe you should give those to your sister so she doesn’t skin me after you tell her what I did tonight_.

  
“So,” Eliza starts, placing her hand on top of Alex’s, “is there something you wanted to tell me?”

  
Alex breaks. It takes both of them by surprise and some small corner of his mind is probably ashamed at the way he’s behaving, but his whole heart is just so full of everything he felt last night that for the second time in 24 hours, Alexander Hamilton breaks down and cries, wringing out every last drop of emotion from his too-full heart and allowing every analysis to slip from his too-full head, until all that’s left is Eliza and John, endlessly circling each other in his mind, and the knowledge that perhaps he’s meant to live with a broken heart, because neither he nor they can seem to mend it.

  
When he comes back to himself, Eliza’s hand is rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades and she’s leaning toward him, shushing and murmuring sweet things in his ear. Her other hand has laced itself through his, her thumb rubbing the same sweet circles into his palm. The scent of her shampoo and the sound of her voice ground him, help him reign in his wild emotions and take control of himself again, but not before he’s cried enough to feel like he could fill the Lincoln Memorial’s reflecting pool all by himself. And it takes a long time for him to slow down his breathing enough to speak.

  
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out eventually, and almost loses it again at the sound of his voice, ragged and uneven. Eliza just shushes him again.

  
“It’s alright,” she says soothingly, “you don’t have to be sorry for this.” Alex chokes out another solitary sob. She’s too good to him. “Alex,” Eliza sighs, taking both his hands now between her own, and he's dreading it but he _knows_ what she has to ask and he  _knows_ that he has to answer. And Eliza says, “what’s wrong?”

  
And he knows he has to, that it wouldn’t be fair to keep this from her any longer, so he tells her everything. Everything from when he first met John in college to the proposal to John’s deployment. He tells her about what it was like with John, what it felt like, and chokes up at certain places and allows Eliza to wipe the residual tears that traitorously slip down his cheeks. He tells her about the night he heard the news, and she squeezes his hands and looks on with large, sympathetic eyes. He goes on and on, and the light outside begins to fade as the sun sinks low over the Potomac behind them and the shadow of the monument in cold granite and marble swallows the both of them. And Eliza doesn’t interrupt once, just lets Alex talk and talk and talk and talk, the way only Alex can, until his voice is sore, until there’s nothing left to say, until the night and the silence hang heavy around them.

  
“I’m sorry,” he says again, “I’m sorry but I just- I realized that I can’t _do_  this anymore and I know it’s not fair to you but-”

  
“Oh _Alex_ ,” she murmurs, before he can get too carried away, and then she doesn’t say anything for a while, just looks at their intertwined hands in the dim light of the streetlamps and the illuminations of the monuments around them.

  
“Thank you for telling me,” she finally whispers, “that must have been very hard for you.”

  
“Eliza, I-”

  
“Don’t,” she says then, quick and sharper than he’s used to. “You listen to me, Alexander Hamilton, because I know you, and I know that you’re afraid of what I’ll think of you, but believe me when I tell you this: I am not angry with you. I have no reason to be, and even if I was upset about this, which I-” she pauses, and she won’t meet his eyes, and her expression is as cold as the stone steps beneath them.

  
“I was going to say that I’m not upset,” she says slowly, “but then I would be lying, and you’ve already been so honest with me tonight.” Her hands tighten around his as she slowly looks at him, looks into his eyes and he can see the pain there, and he hates himself for putting it there, hates himself even more for knowing that he doesn’t have what it takes to remove it. “Not at you,” she declares softly, “I’m not upset at you. It wouldn’t be fair for me to be upset at you just because of the way you feel.”

  
“But I lead you on,” Alexander protests miserably, “I kept dating you even though I- I knew-”

  
“Alexander, if you’re just now telling me this, I don’t think you did.” She tells him sadly, only he doesn’t know anymore if she’s sad for his sake or for her own or for both of theirs. “Or even if you did know,” she adds, “you didn’t _realize_. Sometimes that makes all the difference. You didn’t lead me on, Alex. From my position, I can’t see any situation where you mislead me. All I see is a genuine, sweet, passionate man with whom I’ve spent lots of pleasant time over the past few months. There is nothing wrong with realizing you weren’t where you thought you were emotionally, and realizing that your relationship needs to change because of that. If anything, Alexander, you’re doing right by me by telling me this now, and I appreciate so much that you care enough about my feelings to be honest with me and confide in me this way. It means a lot, Alexander. It really does.”

  
“You’re not disappointed that I- I can’t go out with you anymore? That I have to break this off?” he asks quietly, as though speaking too loudly will shatter this moment between them.

  
Eliza laughs a little, the sound musical and bright even when tinged with sadness. “Oh Alex,” she tells him, stroking a gentle finger down his cheek, “Of course I’m disappointed. I love you a lot, and I enjoy spending time with you and going out with you. I think-”she pauses, seemingly to collect herself, “I think that under different circumstances, we could have been very, very happy together,” She replaces her hand in his and uses the other to tilt his chin up so he’s looking right into her eyes, “but not in this life, and this place. Look around, Alexander.” She gestures around them, " _this_ was always going to be your first love. This city, this work you’re doing, all of this. You’re nonstop, Alexander, and in the long run,” she smiles sadly at him, and when she says her next words, they feel like his sentence.

“I was never going to be able to keep up."

The words echo in his head, the sound of them filling up the silence Alexander and Eliza with a horrible, stinging, painful truth. He can see it so clearly in front of them, a future where he and Eliza stay together and are left forever unsatisfied, brushing up against happiness but never quite able to find it. 

She draws in a deep breath and sets her shoulders, blinks away some of her own tears, and for a moment she looks strikingly like Angelica, that same fire in her eyes, that same strong-willed determination. “And this is good for me, too,” she says, “because even if-" she cuts herself off but she doesn't have to say it; they both know what she means, and Alexander's heart aches at the memory of  _him._  

"I don’t want to be my partner’s second priority." Eliza finishes, determined. "I owe that to myself.”

  
She’s right, and Alex knows it, and her words bring him a bizarre mix of relief and regret. Because he’s so glad she understands, and so proud of her for being strong enough to stand up for what she wants in a relationship. And he’s disappointed in himself because he knows that he can never give it to her.

  
He takes her hand, gently kisses it the way he did when he was first introduced to her at that fateful State Dinner a few months back, and meets Elizabeth Catherine Schuyler’s eyes.

  
“You,” he says, hushed and reverent, “are the best of women.”

  
“Come on,” Eliza says, “it’s late, and neither of us have eaten.” She picks up her flowers and stands, offering her hand to help Alex up off the steps. “Let’s go find a shitty Thai place that’s open late and order way too much food for two responsible adults.” Her smile holds only the slightest bit of sympathy, to make sure Alex is okay, to allow them both one more moment of self-pity before they return to the world, but the rest of her expression is that mischievous Schuyler glint that he’s come to love. And against all odds, Alex begins to have hope that even in light of the evening’s revelations, even despite Alex’s startling romantic fragility, he and Eliza will be able to find a new sort of “normal” moving forward, a new relationship outside the bounds of romance.

  
For now, he allows her to take his hand, and lead him away from his past and into the uncertain future ahead of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, my lovelies, thank you for sparing a moment of your time to read my brain's word vomit. If you liked said word vomit, please leave a comment/kudos etc? It would make my day, but if it would make your day not to do that, that's ok too! This is my first work in this fandom and on AO3! I may add more to this series depending on the reception and on my own inspiration/motivation/lack thereof. It depends on how things work out. My tumblr is: @desiree-harding if you'd like to talk to me about anything at all! Come be my friend!
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Taylor, without whom it may never have seen the light of day.
> 
> Thanks again for the read! Have a beautiful day, my lovelies!
> 
> All my love,
> 
> Desiree


End file.
